


Burning

by grimignis



Series: In Grima's Name [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Chrobin Week 2019, Fictional Religion & Theology, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Blood, Pining, Plegian Culture, Pre-Relationship, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 08:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19902835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimignis/pseuds/grimignis
Summary: Robin has divine blood flowing through his veins. And not just a few drops like every Plegian claims to have. Every part of his being belongs to Grima. He is the perfect vessel for his god.To most, this would be the highest blessing, a cause for celebration. But Robin? Robin recognizes it for what it is. Not a service to his god, but rather an insult to everything He stood for. He won’t let himself be used for such a means, will do whatever it takes to ensure that never comes to pass.A certain prince's habit of forgetting to knock destroys those plans.





	Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 7 of Chrobin Week 2019: Promise.
> 
> If you missed it in the tags, please be aware of warnings for (brief) suicidal thoughts, self harm, and mild blood.

Six eyes bore into Robin’s own. Stark violet against the rich copper of his skin, it burns with an unnatural ferocity, setting it apart from the marks of devotion stretched across the expanse of his back. He’d tried to fool himself into thinking that’s all it is. A tattoo. Something he’s willingly etched into his own skin. The past is a muggy fog in the back of his mind, too thick to muddle through. He clings to the precious few things he does remember like a lifeboat. Magic. Battle plans. How to weave string into intricate plaits.

Plegian culture and traditions.

He can delude himself no further, not when his hand stings like lightning across his skin.

Robin has divine blood flowing through his veins. And not just a few drops like every Plegian claims to have. The Eyes sing across his skin like a calling card, crying out to Grima’s very soul. Every part of his being belongs to Him. He is the perfect vessel for his god.

To most, this would be the highest blessing, a cause for celebration. There are plenty who would die for such an honour, and indeed, claiming that honour would kill a man. No body can withstand the strain of two souls.

But Robin? Robin recognizes it for what it is. Not a service to his god—far from it. Before His fall to madness, Grima was a gentle soul. Claiming the life of another before their rightful time was the highest disgrace one could commit in His mind. And the number of deaths He caused after His fall… Grima would have been devastated. To be brought back from the dead only to rain down more destruction?

Robin won’t let himself be used for such a means. He’ll do whatever it takes to ensure that never comes to pass. Anything.

The mark stings. His brand burns like the flames of Grima’s breath, threatening to consume him. Perhaps he can just cut it off, make it all go away. If he peels the marked flesh from his hand…

Bone knives are only ever used for religious purposes. Never to harm. But as Grima’s vessel, this counts as a religious matter, right?

His unsteady left hand tightens on the ceremonial blade, knuckles pale and shaking. Breathe. It’ll be just like peeling a vegetable. No big deal. Angling its curved edge against his skin, he watches the blood bead on his hand idly. Good Grima, there’s already so much and he’s barely even begun. Just how much more will there be when he’s done?

A strangled sound flickers his attention to the study’s door, burst open by a wide-eyed Chrom.

The knife clatters to the ground with a hollow thud. Of course Chrom would find him, would barge into his room right when he least wants to be found. Seems he still hasn’t dropped that nasty habit of forgetting to knock.

“What are you doing?” Deep blue eyes flicker to his fallen blade, to the blood dripping down his skin in a steady stream. Oh, it’s staining the carpet now. No matter what he does, Robin always makes a mess.

He blinks, and Chrom is kneeling in front of him, cradling his injured hand with unexpected tenderness. It shudders in his grasp, aching, _burning_ —

“Hey, it’s alright,” he soothes, pulling him gently into those strong arms. Arms that tore armies apart and rebuilt his nation from the ashes of war. They rub soothing circles into his back, and Robin leans into that embrace, too far gone to care about image or propriety. Curling against Chrom’s chest, feeling his breath tickle the nape of his neck, he can pretend for a moment that he’s free from the horrors of his blood.

That they both are.

Chrom has to know. This isn’t something he can keep from him. As Falchion’s chosen wielder, he’s probably the only one who can stop him, if…

The prince leans back, studying Robin’s face. The hurt reflected in those eyes shatters his heart into pieces. Gently, almost a ghost of a touch, Chrom wipes the tears from his cheeks, smearing moisture across his skin.

“Why were you…”

Their hands are streaked with blood. It trickles down his skin, slow but steady. Chrom frowns, fumbling around his pocket until he finds a handkerchief to curb the flow.

Robin takes a deep breath, lets it settle in his lungs before expelling it all at once.

“It’s a brand, Chrom.”

His hands still.

“It’s not… it isn’t a tattoo, like I thought. It marks me as Grima’s branded.”

Chrom frowns, brows furrowed as their knees press together. “Like the Brand of the Exalt?”

“Sort of. But…”

Chrom waits patiently for his response, trusting, just like always. That blind trust is going to get him into trouble some day.

…Perhaps it already has.

“They can use me to revive Grima.”

Fear flashes in those blue eyes, confusion and pain entwined together in a cacophony of conflicting emotions. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“There are some sects out there who… who worship the words of Grima after His fall. Who believe that only in the destruction of mankind, and its succeeding rebirth, that we can be saved from damnation.” It took him a while to remember that unfortunate fact. He wasn’t too sure where all the misconceptions the Ylisseans had come from, not until he realized there was more truth to their words than he’d like to believe.

The brand burns brighter with the weight of Chrom’s gaze, the heavy furrow of his brows as he tries to take it all in. “So they… how would…”

“I don’t know. I only know that… that I was _bred_ for this, Chrom. I was born for this purpose. I’m sure of it.”

He gestures vaguely. “Is that why you were…” About to skin his hand?

“Yes.”

Almost unconsciously, Chrom places a hand over his own brand, rubbing it softly. It seems so much fainter than Robin’s. If it were just as bright, could he be used as a god’s vessel too?

“If what you’re saying is true, I don’t think removing the mark will help.”

Of course, he’s right. Nothing can get rid of the blood coursing through his veins. Nothing short of…

“‘Probably have to cut my heart out for that.”

Chrom freezes, eyes as wide as the oceans they so resemble. It was supposed to be a joke, but neither of them are laughing. With a start, he realizes that he _would_ do it, that he would give up his life without a second thought if it meant preventing the world’s end. His mouth is too dry for words, head buzzing at the implications of—

“ _Robin_ ,” Chrom breathes. It takes all his courage to look into those eyes, words caught in his throat as his whole world collapses around him.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” he chokes, swept into Chrom’s arms once more. He loses every shred of composure he had left, heaving great sobs into that warm embrace.

The prince settles his head on Robin’s shoulder, hair tickling against his cheek, voice hoarse yet soft against his ear. “Promise me. Promise me that you won’t…” He grips him tighter. So tight it almost hurts. Like he’s afraid if he lets go, Robin will pick up that knife and end it all.

“I won’t. Not unless…”

“They won’t. I won’t let them touch you.” A cool dampness settles on his shoulder. More carefully than Chrom is holding him, Robin places his branded hand atop Chrom’s head, carding it softly through his hair.

“You can’t make that promise.”

He grips him harder, too hard. But Robin doesn’t mind as long as he can stay in those arms.

“I’ll swear on my soul I won’t—” Grima, please forgive him— ”if you’ll promise me something in return.”

Chrom raises his head to look at him, gaze glassy. The absolute devastation there makes Robin’s heart clench. He doesn’t care about his own life, not really, but he’ll do anything to wipe that look off his face. He’s already caused the man so much pain, taken away something so dear to him—even if he insists that Emmeryn’s death was far from his fault, Robin can’t help but feel at blame. If he was just a little smarter, a little quicker, maybe…

No, not now. _Focus_.

“If they… if they capture me, you have to end it.”

“End it? What do you…” The hands holding onto him fall away, curling into fists at his side. “No. No, absolutely not! I won’t—I _can’t_ do that.”

“You have to. Chrom—“

“No! Stop this!” He’s yelling now. “You’re being irrational. No one’s going to take you.”

“But if they do? If it’s between killing me and saving the entirety of humanity, will you do it?”

He’s shaking. Robin has never seen that look turned against him, the one Chrom uses to stare enemies down. The kind of rage that comes far too fast, burns far too quickly. Chrom has always had a problem with his temper, but not once has he taken it out on his tactician.

“You can’t ask me to do this,” he pleads, head falling back on Robin’s shoulder.

“You said yourself it probably won’t happen.” He’ll beg if he has too. ”Please? I just—I need to know that, no matter what…” Chrom has to understand. He _has_ to. “I’d rather die than become that, I can’t—“

Grima, it _burns_. It won’t stop.

It never stops.

“Okay.” It’s barely even a whisper, a tickle at his neck that he’s not sure he didn’t imagine. “If it comes to that, which it won’t—“ he’s looking into his eyes now, deep oceans meeting the night sky— “I promise that I’ll… don’t make me say it.”

The breath he didn’t know he was holding leaves all at once. “Then, on the sacred covenant of my soul, I do swear to you that…” He gives him a wry smile, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “You’re not going to make _me_ say it, are you?”

Chrom laughs, finally disentangling himself from the tactician. Robin’s misses his warmth already, but seeing the smile that blooms on the man’s face makes it worth it. Robin will do anything for that smile.

“Are you alright, now? You’re not going to…”

He shakes his head, slipping the forgotten glove back on his hand. It hugs the mark, cool leather soothing the burn. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore.

“Good. Good…” He pauses, contemplative, brows furrowed and mouth drawn tight. “Robin, you’re… _important_ to me, you know that, right?”

Oh, is that all? Robin nods, not quite trusting his words at the squeeze of his chest, the warmth blossoming within him at those simple words. Chrom has always shown his gratitude to him, always trusted him with his secrets, his insecurities. Robin doesn’t doubt that he’s important to him—maybe his best friend, even. But he also knows better than to think it’s anything else. No matter how desperately he wishes it was.

“Please don’t tell anyone about… about all of this.” Telling Chrom is one thing, but he’s not sure the others would be as understanding if that found out just what he is. Frederick has him under a close enough lens already.

“Of course not. I won’t betray your trust.” Giving his shoulder a firm squeeze, Chrom shoots him one last smile, so bright Robin has to squint against that dazzling light. If he doesn’t restrain himself, he might just go blind.

Inches away from the doorframe, the prince gives him yet another concerned look-over. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? I have a meeting in ten minutes, but after that we could—“

“Chrom, I’m _fine._ Go to your meeting. I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Alright, alright. If you ever want to talk—“

“I know where to find you.”

Satisfied at last, he clicks the study door closed, taking Robin’s fears with him.

His hand still burns. But the once raging inferno quiets to a dull ache.

And for once, Robin can just _breathe_.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of a larger series of oneshots I'm working on which explores Robin's relationship with Plegian culture and religion. The black and white way cannon treats Plegia and Ylisse has always bothered me, so I'm hoping to expand on worldbuiling and address these issues in my works. I'll be posting some worldbuilding notes/sketches on [my tumblr](https://grimignis.tumblr.com/) if you're interested!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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